The Teyrn's Revenge
by Tyanilth
Summary: A highly OOC look at what Loghain might think about the antics that certain fan fiction writers put him through...
1. Chapter 1

_**This was actually written over a month ago and was published on the Cheeky Monkeys of Dragon Age fanfiction forum. It is republished here by the kind permission of Josie Lange and Shakespira (who've both been very good sports about this!) and I strongly recommend a trawl through their published work on FFnet - you lose half the jokes here if you haven't read their M rated Loghain short pieces. Nods here to Terry Pratchett and Jane Austen (and no prizes for spotting either!). Pure slapstick, and a chance for our favorite reticent Teyrn to finally get his own back...**_

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><p>It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man over the age of twenty five is likely to have at least once in his life woken up in a state of complete confusion after a drunken binge, with any or all of the following questions running through his head - what time is it, what day is it, where on earth am I, why have I got a policeman's helmet on my head, where have all my clothes gone, why am I handcuffed to these railings, dear God, what happened last night?<p>

This being the age of gender equality, while the likelihood of this scenario is generally less for a woman over the age of twenty five it is still a possibility, rendered significantly more likely if the woman involved has completed a degree at one of our older universities. Students remain students wherever they are.

However, when two women both awake in a state of undress and the questions running through their heads are_ I don't remember getting drunk in the first place, where are my clothes, why are my wrists handcuffed and chained to the ceiling, where on earth is this place, what world am I on?_ Then all one can really say is that the odds are, this is not a hen party that went wrong.

Eyes slide left

Eyes slide right

"Josie?"

"Shakespira?"

"That can't really be you, is it?"

"I was about to ask you that?"

"Where on earth is this?"

"Looks like Fort Drakon. But it can't be. Can it?"

"Of course it can't be. This is a game. I mean Dragon Age is a game. I mean."

"I know what you mean, but..."

Silence as realisation dawns.

_Tyanilth. She actually wrote it, didn't she. Oh hell._

Footsteps coming down the hallway. Heavy boots. Plate armour. A man's step. Door opens, behind both. Door closes.

"Well. I cannot say that I ever thought I would have the...pleasure of meeting the pair of you. Still less so under circumstances like this.

Oh, that voice. That voice. If Simon Templeman is the imitation and this is the reality, then Simon does not for an instant do Loghain justice. That voice is deep, and strong, and has a rough edge to it probably gained from bellowing at soldiers over battlefields for decades. A voice as smooth and rich as bittersweet chocolate, and still tinged with that perfect irony.

And the game graphics do not do the man justice. He's older than the artists draw him, there's more grey in that hair, the face has more lines, more scars. None of these detract from what this man is - raw strength, raw power, held tight leashed. And those ice-blue eyes surveying his two captives - the artists got that right at least. But they didn't catch that life in them, that spark like storm light in midwinter. Those eyes must be truly terrifying in anger. At present, they aren't angry. If anything, Loghain looks...amused.

Of course, it isn't hard to look amused when the two people who've caused you a lot of trouble are chained up naked in front of you.

Loghain sets two boxes on the table. Black boxes, roughly the same size. Both appear to be heavy. Both clink as they are set down.

"As both of you probably are very well aware, I rarely interrogate women. It is a task I have always preferred to leave to someone else. But under the circumstances, I thought it might be best if I did carry out this interrogation personally. Though I have to say that if you preferred, Howe and Gregoir did offer to take over for me. They were most - insistent in fact. I can let them do this if you prefer?"

Two frantic shakes of two heads.

"Funnily enough, that was what I thought you were going to say." He turns to the table, looks at both boxes. "Now - which one is Shakespira?"

One nod, wide eyed.

Loghain removes a gag from the box. "Isolde sends you this with her compliments. She wishes to inform you that it is a duplicate of the one you gave to Gregoir for her, and she says you ought to try wearing it for an hour before you inflict anything like that on one of your characters again." Strong hands buckle it into place. "Now, what else do we have in here."

He rummages in the box. He looks seriously puzzled at what is coming out. A roll of saran wrap. A keyboard covered in saran wrap. A collapsible telescope covered in saran wrap. "I'm going to have to have a word with Tyanilth. I have no idea at all what any of this lot is in here for."

But he chuckles as he lifts out the riding crop at the bottom of the box. "Ah, this was what I was looking for. " He sets it down on the table directly in the eye view of both of his prisoners. "Now. Shakespira. I could forgive you for Joss and Teagan. I perhaps, in time could forgive you Isolde. There's even a possibility that I might eventually forgive you for Gregoir. But you destroyed any chance of mercy when you chose to finish that episode by shipping me off to Orlais. You must have laughed and laughed at that one." He raises his eyebrows. "But, the boot is on the other foot now, isn't it?"

Another silent, wide eyed nod. Given the gag, it's a little difficult to respond in any other way.

Loghain's attention turns to his other captive. "But Shakespira's offences pale into insignificance, frankly, Josie, when I consider the trouble you've put me through."

The second captive quivers.

Loghain lifts a bottle out of the second box, and pours about three fingers of the clear amber fluid it contains into a glass. The glass is wafted under Josie's nose. "Does that remind you of anything?"

Head shakes

"Taste it"

Josie chokes down a swallow of the spirit. Eyes raise at the taste.

Loghain takes a gulp from the glass. "That, Josie, is Antivan brandy. And no matter how good the Antivan brandy is, you had managed to feed me enough of it by the end of your first effort that I agreed to a threesome with that whiny brat Jowan, and had to burn a perfectly good desk as a result. I might forgive you eventually for the threesome. But I liked that desk."

He looks in the box and extracts a square of coarse fabric. "Do you know what this is?"

Head shakes

"This, Josie, is the last remains of what was once a perfectly good tent. Which I also had to burn because of what you made me do inside it. And who you made me do inside it. Wynne of all people. Not to mention a memory of Howe that is going to be seared into my brain until my dying day."

He wads the canvas into a roll, pours some of the brandy over it. Drinks the rest of the glass in one long gulp. Then gags Josie with the brandy soaked cloth.

"Now, while I have your full attention, and neither of you can answer back, let me make something quite clear to both of you."

He indeed has a captive audience. In every sense of the word. He wanders behind both captives and trails strong hands down their bare backs. Two shudders. The caresses become more intimate. He raises an eyebrow. "It couldn't be that the pair of you are...enjoying this, could it? Dear, dear." Then he is back by the table and regarding both sternly.

"I have no way of controlling what your twisted little imaginations come up with. And I would not even attempt to try. But..." and he punctuates the word by slamming his hand down on the table. "I intend to leave you both with a memory that you are going to find just as hard to shake as the ones you have inflicted on me."

He indicates the door. "I am going to release you from those cuffs. You are going to accompany me to the room next door. And the pair of you are going to show me exactly what you can do with those twisted imaginations to make this whole thing up to me. And you had better both make it good. Really good. Alternatively, I can leave you exactly where you are and call Wynne, Gregoir, Howe and Isolde in to settle the score. Is that what you would prefer?"

Two frantic headshakes.

He chuckles. "Somehow, I had a feeling that was what you were going to say."

Two sets of cuffs are unbuckled. The gags are left in place. He indicates the door with mock courtesy. "After you, ladies."

As they precede him into the adjoining bedroom, two minds have but a single thought.

_Tomorrow, Tyanilth dies. But today...we get to make the most of this first._


	2. Chapter 2

**_Now, some people might consider it grossly unfair that Loghain blames the amazingly funny fanfiction writer Enaid Aderyn for something that I actually wrote (see my short piece Left The Horns At Home) :) But given that Enaid was the one who specified Ovaltine as part of that writing challenge, I think she's got a hard time pleading innocence in this case... And if you haven't yet discovered her Mabari and Magus piece, go look for it, you are really missing out on something.  
><em>**

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><p>Darkness. Dripping water. Only one set of cuffs this time and the prisoner whose wrists are secured in them twists against the restraints. Distinctly cold, but since the prisoner is naked, almost any room with stone walls would be cold. And since the prisoner is blindfolded further details about the room are impossible to ascertain.<p>

But the voice that is currently kindly lecturing the prisoner is unmistakeable and there is no need of sight to identify the speaker.

"Now...Enaid Aderyn, isn't it? I have to admit that up until now you had passed completely beneath my notice. Unsurprising really given everything that Josie and Shakespira have put me through...and one of these days I will have to have a very long talk with Tyanilth. But for now, let me explain why you're here."

He paces behind the captive. "One word, Enaid. One word. Ovaltine. Have you ever actually tasted it? Only the Orlesians could take milk, eggs and malt, all worthy ingredients in themselves, and combine them to produce something quite that disgusting. One almost has to have respect for their chef, that miracle of recombination took a certain degree of talent."

The footsteps come back round to the front and suddenly the blindfold is removed. The prisoner's wide, blinking eyes fix on Loghain's ice blue ones. The gag has not been removed. Loghain clearly has no plans to hear excuses or mitigating circumstances.

"And the worst of it, Enaid, is that I actually had to drink some of the bloody stuff. Under other circumstances I could simply have hidden the wretched muck in the chamber pot that they so kindly provided for me. But since I had already convinced them that I suffered from certain night-time...problems I had no doubt that whatever poor servant they coerced into cleaning the place in the morning was under strict orders to report on the state of the chamber pot, and I doubt very much that even the stupidest Orlesian could be convinced that the Hero of River Dane pisses Ovaltine. Nor was there a window that I could throw the stuff out of, there was no pot plant to tip it into, there was no Mabari to feed it to, and I doubt I could find a Mabari stupid enough to drink it. And Muirnara flatly refused to help. So I had to drink it. And I lay the stomach upset that I had for two subsequent days firmly at your door."

The captive whimpers behind the gag.

Loghain's voice is an amused purr as he looks at the table. "Now, Enaid, we have various ways of solving this...little difficulty."

He picks up the coiled black riding whip that is sitting on the table. "We can deal with this in one of three ways. I can send you home in as much discomfort as I was in for two days in Orlais..."

He puts down the whip again and picks up the mug that sits beside it. "Second possibility. I can make you drink a half pint of Ovaltine and let you off the whip if you manage to keep the stuff down for more than 20 minutes. And be warned..." The voice is colder now, "this is the *original* recipe..."

If the captive was able to plead for mercy, then the pleas would surely be coming by now.

Loghain chuckles. "Or of course, I can give you the same choice I gave Josie and Shakespira. You can accompany me into the adjoining bedroom and I can take off the gag, and you can think up a suitable apology. And I have to say the pair of them were amazingly, inventively apologetic. At length for most of the night. And one of them left behind a very fetching black lace undergarment which I would like you to return for me once we sort out this little...difference of opinion."

He pauses. "So, Enaid. One whimper for the first option. Two whimpers for the second. Three whimpers for the third. Which is it going to be?"

Three pitiful whimpers.

He laughs and tips the Ovaltine into a bucket. "And all I can say, Enaid, is that I am being far more merciful to you than you were to me."


	3. Chapter 3

**_In honour of the latest Shakespira and Josie Lange threesome short pieces involving our favorite Teyrn. And with a nod to Enaid Aderyn's turning of the tables on Yours Truly. Don't worry, Enaid, your turn is coming..._**

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><p>"You're both doing this on purpose."<p>

Loghain sounds completely exasperated. He pushes a hand through his hair.

"Three months. No, Maker help us all, it's been less than three months since I had the pair of you in another room being...most apologetic. I seem to remember some very fervent promises at one point that it Wouldn't Happen Again. Although I grant you, both of you were in a position at the time where it did cross my mind as to whether you would even remember the promises later, and the fervent invocations of the Maker suggested your minds might have been...elsewhere."

The targets of the latest diatribe sit demurely side by side on two chairs, politely listening to this. They even appear to be clothed this time. Dressed with some care, actually. Perhaps this interview was...expected? Even dressed quite demurely, although both appear to be illustrating that age old principle that how sexy a garment is not a function of how much of the body it covers, or fails to cover, but how likely it appears that it could inadvertently slip and reveal more. Both Josie and Shakespira are beautifully dressed examples of the Sartorial Uncertainty Principle. Loghain appears to be studiously ignoring this.

"Now...Shakespira. I suppose you thought that by elegantly circumventing the terms of the challenge laid down by a Certain Woman, you might escape retribution this time." There is some amusement. "Full marks for trying. Unfortunately it won't work. Because now that I know exactly who it was that I watched that day, you have succeeded in destroying one of my most pleasant memories. I am never going to be able to remember that again without also remembering that Duncan (of all people) was the other partner in that little scene in the forest. Talk about a passion killer. So, nice attempt, but it won't work."

He turns his attention to Josie. "Now. Josie. What can I say. Gratuitous abuse of Antivan brandy. Again. And as if that wasn't bad enough, you had to drag the Antivan elf in as well this time. I suppose I ought to be grateful that you didn't make me burn the damn bed. After all you incinerated my desk and my tent in your last two attempts at threesomes. And I will grant you that Zevran is at least more picturesque than Howe. Also, you managed to resist the temptation to involve that old harpy Wynne this time. But..."

A long pause.

"But, Josie, you managed to lose all these credits when you and a certain pair of other ladies decided to use the old priest's hole in my study to spy on another interview..."

Both listeners are now blushing.

He raises an eyebrow. "Really, ladies. Did you honestly think that I didn't know about the spy holes behind that old painting? What did you take me for? As much of an idiot as my son in law Cailan? Now, let me explain a few things to you about a successful stealth operation. Firstly - arguments can wait. It does not matter in the least who gets the left eye hole, the right eye hole, or the...other hole. Secondly, no matter what part of your anatomy is being inserted into another's ear, eye or worse - shut up and suffer. Because the third and final point is that you should never underestimate just how much sound can carry out of those three seemingly insignificant holes..."

Josie makes a strangled noise. Loghain raises the other eyebrow.

"Oh yes - and contrary to what you apparently believed. There is indeed a portrait in the other room, and it does have a peephole. Left eye. But there is only space for one person behind it. And on this occasion you will both have to take my word for it that there is nobody in it. And yes, I am quite certain of this fact, because there is an ingenious little booby trap in there too and had anyone triggered the trap, I would have known all about it. You might want to warn Enaid Aderyn of that before she gets any more bright ideas..."

He sighs. "Now, I suppose I needn't waste my time offering you a choice?"

Two firm shakes of two heads.

"Very well, ladies. Next room."

He courteously opens the door for them. A pause.

"You know - next time you could always just invite me out for a drink at the Gnawed Noble, and we could bypass all the amateur dramatics? Just a thought."

The door closes, just as there is an almighty bang from behind the portrait on the opposite wall from the bed. Loghain's roar can probably be heard two rooms away.

**"TYANILTH! Get out of that bloody priest's hole! NOW!"**


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's note. A response to Enaid Aderyn's hilarious Duncan-Sanga-Loghain threesome. If you haven't found it yet - go look.**

**Honestly, I think people are writing these threesomes now purely to get their own chapters! :)**

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><p>"Do you know, Enaid, I actually wondered last time if I had been too hard on you?"<p>

These are not The Teyrn's usual measured tones. His target is perched on a hard wooden chair. She does not appear to be bound in any way. What is keeping her rooted to her seat appears to be fascination with what is going on in front of her.

What is going on in front of her appears to be Loghain in a complete snit.

"After all, your last offence was little more than a suggestion. I do grant you that suggestion was Ovaltine. But I did wonder after you...went home, the following morning, whether I had completely overreacted. After all, you weren't exactly to blame for what Tyanilth chose to do with that Ovaltine. Do you know I nearly sent an apology to you?"

He throws some papers down onto his desk. One sheet drifts onto the floor. Enaid's eyes follow its leisurely descent.

"And then *this* gets brought to my attention. Honestly, Enaid. What were you thinking of?"

Big round eyes stare up at him.

He winces. "Forget I asked that. I don't think I want to *know* any more of what you were thinking of than I do already having read this. Duncan. Enaid, Duncan. After you and those other two...ladies listened in on my interview with Tyanilth, and you still wrote a threesome involving Duncan. I now know that the four of you are indeed trying to drive me insane."

He picks up the stray sheet of paper and rips it in half and in half again. Then drops the pieces.

"And you are succeeding."

He paces behind Enaid.

"Now I can't even visit the Pearl any more. And frankly about all I ever go there for is a drink, and some peace away from lunatic fan fiction writers. Generally in the Pearl, they can find far more interesting things to write about. Especially if they happened to tell Sanga, "Surprise me."

He comes back into Enaid's field of vision. "And oh, dear, some of them do indeed get a surprise."

He moves back behind the desk again. "Do you know, Enaid, I wasn't going to offer you mercy this time? I thought if I handed you over to Sanga and told her to 'surprise' you, then I might get some peace for a while when the word got about? Especially if you got that transgendered elf and the...penetration devices?"

Enaid whimpers.

"And then, Enaid, I read your...effort again, and I came to the conclusion that you had earned one last chance. You did at least let me win the size comparison. A poor thing on which to hope for mercy, but on this occasion..."

He indicates the bedroom door.

"And this had better be the best apology of your life. Or I'll start writing my own fan fiction. And when you end up as the sandwich filling of a Sten-Oghren threesome, you might at last start to see my point of view."

As she precedes him into the bedroom, there is one thought in her mind.

_"He has just got to be joking about writing that threesome..."_

_"Please let him be joking..."_


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note - and now sleepyowlet gets the revenge treatment for her Cousland/Nathaniel/Loghain threesome. You asked for this, Owlet. In every sense of the word. :)**

**And for anyone wondering about the ribbons, go look for sleepyowlet's DeviantArt page and find the piece called Enchantment. Under the circumstances I think The Teyrn was very restrained indeed.**

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><p>"Fanfiction is not as easy to write as it seems."<p>

"General Loghain?"

The woman in the doorway looks puzzled. Loghain is seated in a comfortable chair in his bedroom. He is surrounded by crumpled up sheets of parchment. He's just tossed another failed effort in the direction of the fireplace and missed. The soldier's voice seems to return him to reality. "My apologies. Did you want something, Cauthrien?"

"My lord, the young woman you wanted to interview has been sitting in your office for the last five hours. Would you like us to throw her in a cell for the night, and tell her you'll deal with her in the morning?"

He sighs and stands up. "No, Cauthrien, I might as well take a break from this. Perhaps I'll come back to it with a clearer mind. Which one of the regular troublemakers is it this time?"

"None of them, my lord. I believe her name is sleepyowlet?"

"Ah." A light dawns behind Loghain's eyes. "Now that is a young lady I have wanted a talk with for a long time. Dismissed, Cauthrien. I'll be there in half an hour."

As Cauthrien leaves, Loghain opens a drawer of the chest near the bed and extracts two ribbons. He then walks over to the washstand and collects a couple of other things.

"A very long time indeed..."

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><p>The prisoner in the office shifts on the hard wooden chair she's been put on. The two women soldiers who brought her in have stripped her and even unbound her hair.<p>

_Did they think I was concealing a weapon there or something?_

Her backside went numb a very long time ago, but Cauthrien warned her of the consequences should she stand up before The Teyrn got there. In detail. Owlet has remained seated. As the door opens and Loghain walks in, Owlet does indeed consider standing up, and then one glance at The Teyrn and she's rooted to her chair. It's not the expression on his face. It's those ribbons on his windbraids.

_Oh blessed Andraste, I just knew that would come back to haunt me sooner or later..._

Loghain sits down behind the desk. He sets a sheaf of papers on the desk.

She just can't take her eyes off those bobbing ribbons. At least he isn't wearing That Dress.

And at present, he seems more interested in her latest story. At least that's what she assumes he's reading.

"Nate. You put me in a threesome with Nathaniel. Owlet, do you have *any* idea what a can of worms that is?"

She manages a weak shake of the head.

"Do you know that because of the way those bloody idiots at Bioware drew Nathaniel, half the Dragon Age fanbase think he's my son? That some of you wretched fanfiction writers have even employed your sordid little imaginations writing out the "scene" with Howe's wife?" He shudders. "And frankly if you'd ever met the woman..."

He takes a deep breath and squares the edges of the pages. "Leaving that aside, we still have the problem of the threesome itself. Did you think you were going to get mercy simply because you were kind enough to toss me a cushion to spare my arthritic knees?"

Another weak shake of the head.

Loghain is shaking his own head now, reading further down the page. The ribbon bows bob from side to side. They're quite hypnotic really.

"I see at least you finished the piece with the implication that Branwen was going to suffer for the suggestion sooner or later. With the assistance of that Orlesian bard. Am I to assume that a foursome is going to be inflicted on me some time in the near future?"

_Now what answer is going to get me in the least trouble? Given how much trouble I'm already in?_

Owlet opts for silence. Probably the wisest move.

Loghain stands up. "Now, if this was your only offence, I might be tempted to let it go. But it isn't. Is it?"

Another shake of the head.

He sighs. "Fan art. All very well in its place. And its place is not with half of those idiots on DeviantArt laughing their socks off at Loghain Mac Tir in a dress, and with ribbons in his hair. Do I make myself absolutely clear?"

Owlet nods, wide eyed. Then the eyes become positively saucer-like as Loghain takes his razor out of his pocket.

_He wouldn't..._

_Would he...?_

_Is he really that pissed off?_

He stalks towards her with the razor open in his hand

_I'm not shaking. I'm really, really not shaking._

Then he surprises her. He reaches up to his own hair and nicks the ribbons off his windbraids with the corner of the razor. He reaches down and puts one of them into her hand.

"I don't think they suit me."

Then she is holding her breath as he picks up one long fine red strand of her hair, and cuts through it, just beside her ear. He uses the other ribbon to tie that lock up and slips it into the pocket of his shirt.

"Spoils of war, my lady. Now can we come to an agreement here? You will find no further reason to modify my hair - and I won't be tempted to modify yours?"

That gets a pathetically grateful nod.

He offers her a hand to help her up, which is just as well, since her legs went to sleep several hours ago. "Now, this had better be one seriously good apology."

He realises she's still staring at the razor in his hand and tosses it into his desk drawer. "Better?"

Nod

The bedroom door closes behind them.


	6. Chapter 6

_**Author's note - And this time it's Gene Dark in the Teyrn's study. Somebody finally showed him her Wynne-Rylock-Loghain piece "Feast of Starvelings". And this was not the easiest revenge piece to write at all. But here you are, Gene. :)**_

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><p>For once, The Teyrn seems more thoughtful than angry. He's staring into the flames of a small fire. The flakes of black ash in the hearth suggest he's been burning paper again, or possibly vellum.<p>

The prisoner is seated in a comfortable armchair on the other side of the hearthrug. If indeed she can be called a prisoner. Cauthrien's guards stripped her and searched her when she was brought in, but unlike some previous visitors to this study, they then gave her a robe to wear. It's heavy unbleached linen, a little too large for her and ties around the waist. It might be a man's dressing robe. It isn't the most elegant garment in the world, but elegance isn't likely to be high on the list of worries in Gene Dark's mind at the moment. She knows the stories that other fan fiction writers have told about these..interviews. If anything, she's probably just grateful that the interview is taking place in the study, and not in Fort Drakon as it has been on some previous occasions.

Her eyes cast down, she sees more torn paper under the desk. The Teyrn's own efforts at writing fan fiction plainly aren't going any better than they were at Owlet's interview. The ripped sheet that has caught in the edge of the rug tantalises with its half sentences. There is some evidence to suggest that this particular torn-up-in-disgust piece of literature involved Josie Lange, First Enchanter Irving and the Grand Cleric. One has to feel a profound sense of gratitude that it didn't get any further than one ripped page...

Loghain finally speaks. He doesn't turn around. His eyes are still fixed on the fire.

"Gene Dark... An appropriate name for someone who is clearly something of a dark horse. I know who is usually going to annoy me with another few thousand words of drivel, and there are certain regular offenders who have graced this study with their presence multiple times. But your effort came from nowhere as far as I could see."

_Is this the moment to blame Tyanilth?_

"And you don't need to tell me that Tyanilth was involved. Or Josie Lange. Or Shakespira. Those three usually are, somewhere. But I seem to remember reading one of them a lecture in this very room on the subject of taking responsibility for one's own actions."

_OK, so that argument won't work..._

At last he turns round. There's some amusement in those ice blue eyes. He unstoppers the heavy glass decanter on the desk and pours two fingers of amber liquid into a glass. Pauses. Then pours another two fingers into a second glass and passes it to his...guest. Who is so surprised she nearly drops it.

"And no, this is not Antivan brandy. This is good Fereldan malt whisky, from the southern part of Highever. Easily as good as anything those Antivans export. All those fan fiction writers seem to have some sort of fetish about Antivan brandy."

He pauses.

"Though I'll admit it's a better fetish than this obsession about Ovaltine. Really, Gene, even you couldn't manage without mentioning the wretched stuff? I despair of you all."

His guest blushes and takes a sip of the spirit - which is indeed as good as he claims, and does go some way to soften the block of ice which appears to have taken up residence in the pit of her stomach.

Loghain leafs through what is clearly her story. "Now, frankly when I saw this one involved Wynne - again - I nearly didn't bother to interview you at all. I considered whether just tossing you in the Drakon River and letting you swim to shore might serve as a warning to the next writer..."

That block of ice seems to be reforming. Gene takes a frantic gulp of the whisky.

"And then I read the rest of the story. All of it."

Gene seems to be half forgotten. He's gazing into the fire again.

"To be a soldier is to be - for a time - less than human. You make yourself into a monster, because it is necessary. As a monster, you can kill the man who comes at you with a sword, with no thought about the man's wife, children, parents. As a monster you can make the decisions that send hundreds of your men to their deaths. How do you deal with it afterwards? Some generals get religion. Some get drunk. Plenty do both. You'd be surprised how many drunks are on their knees in front of the altar after a campaign."

He drinks his whisky in a single swallow and refills the glass.

"But somehow - and this was the redemption of your story - you've touched on the other road to salvation. That in the arms of a woman, the monster becomes a man again. That - in my opinion - is the reason the Chantry force chastity on most Templars. If you want Templars to think of mages as less than people, if you want Templars to remain monsters, then you have to deny them the simplest and most basic route to remembering they are just men and women - and so are the mages."

He looks at her and for once there's no amusement, no anger, just too many memories. "For that reason, and that reason alone, I don't think - this time - that you owe me any apology. If what you want to do is walk out of here, I won't stop you. You can tell the rest of that gaggle of idiots whatever story you like. Cauthrien will return your clothes to you downstairs."

He deliberately sets the glass down beside hers.

"Or you can choose to stay. But that's your choice. I may not be the best of company tonight."

He's looking into the fire again as he speaks.

Gene hesitates, and gets to her feet.

_This isnt how I thought this would go at all._

Cautiously, she lays a hand on his shoulder. He doesn't move initially, but after a minute his own calloused hand covers hers.

Some time later, a draught causes the candles to flicker as a bedroom door opens and closes. And the firelight reflects in the golden liquid left in two abandoned glasses.


	7. Chapter 7

_**Author's note - and Kira Tamarion comes to The Teyrn's attention for her piece "Maiden, Mother, Crone". The Teyrn is not amused... Not Amused At All. :)**_

* * *

><p>"Flemeth."<p>

The word is uttered in a quiet, well modulated and calm voice. The only thing that suggests that The Teyrn and his voice are not in the same state of mind is his hand. It is clenched around some crumpled sheets of paper, so tightly that the edges have cut into his palm.

"Flemeth"

His listener is seated in the study chair that has seen so many of these interviews. Kira Tamarion is clearly not getting away as lightly as Gene Dark did. Naked. Bound. Gagged. Some evidence that the orders were not to have any concerns for this particular interviewee's comfort, judging by the extra half twist given to the arms before securing them. The orders seem to have been carried out with Cauthrien's customary calm efficiency. The Maker only knows what she thinks about these interviews. On the other hand given her near worship for Loghain she may think that the writers clearly Had This Coming...or worse.

"Flemeth"

Loghain at last seems to realise what he's doing. He carefully smooths out the papers and sets them on the desk. He pauses to read one particular paragraph again. A shudder runs down his strong back. His ice blue eyes, blazing with frozen fury, turn to his captive.

The Teyrn is clearly Royally Pissed Off.

"Just what in the name of the Black City did you think you were doing?"

Given the gagged state of the captive, an answer does not seem to be forthcoming.

"Flemeth. With all the history there, with everything you knew...and you write a piece that has me bedding that venomous old harpy. Even if she was a very young harpy and a still fairly young harpy at the time and you went to a lot of trouble to hide the fact she was a harpy at all. I thought Enaid Aderyn and Shakespira were deliberately trying to drive me crazy with the Duncan pieces. I don't know whether you were trying to drive me insane or drive me into a fury. Congratulations. You just succeeded on both counts."

He paces the floor. His captive's eyes follow him in fascination.

"And that isn't the half of it. As some of your little friends have already remarked, the implication in your piece is that Morrigan is actually my daughter. Now, how long do you think it's likely to take all those little perverts on the kink meme to get round to writing incestuous versions of the Dark Ritual? With all the details?"

He pauses.

"Actually, forget that. They probably already have. I don't think there's any perversion in existence that hasn't shown up on that kink meme somewhere. Come to that, I think they've invented a few new ones that nobody had ever heard of..."

He turns to face his captive.

"I suppose you now want to...apologise?"

Nod.

"All right. One thing - and one thing only. If you reveal after the apology that you're actually Flemeth in disguise, then I'm going to physically throw you out of the bedroom window. Clear?"

Nod.

He pauses again. "That wouldn't work either. I'd throw you out of the window and you'd change into a dragon halfway down. Oh, never mind."

He cuts her bonds but doesn't remove the gag. Meekly she follows him towards the bedroom door.

He takes one last look at the pages on the desk. Then at the portrait.

"And whichever one of you is in the not-so-secret priest's hole this time, you sneezed. Twice. I heard you. Go find something better to do with your time."

The bedroom door closes behind them.


	8. Chapter 8

_**And the Teyrn's eye turns to another victim. Not for a fanfiction offence this time. ChampTheWonderSnail gets the Teyrn's attention for this drawing on DeviantArt - "Tea Time with the General"**_

_**http:/ experimentalgerbil . deviantart . com/gallery/?offset=24#/d4i89ya (lose the spaces)  
><strong>_

_**I was humming the "I'm a little teapot" song all afternoon after seeing it. **_

_**The Teyrn Is Not Amused.**_

* * *

><p>"You know, young lady, I initially wondered if this was a simple confusion?"<p>

The person addressed does not answer. Naked. Gagged. Loghain is pacing the rug in front of her.

"I wondered if perhaps there was a straightforward solution to this. After all, not everyone speaks the Kings Tongue as their first language and while to the best of my knowledge the words for "plate mail" and "teapot" are not remotely similar in Orlesian, Antivan or Old Tevinter, there are many tongues I have no knowledge of. It was entirely possible that in your native tongue there might indeed be a natural confusion of the two terms as a result of a mistranslation."

The captive squirms.

Loghain turns and regards her without amusement.

"And then someone showed me the drawing"

Champ is now proving that blushing is not merely restricted to the face.

"I might even have found it amusing. Until I discovered that Alistair had pinned up a copy of it in the water closet in the Denerim palace. Along with several more of scantily clad female elves, actually. But it still wasn't funny."

He circles behind her.

"Now, for the present and since this is a first offence, I am going to treat this as an opportunity for...re-education."

Somehow that word does not sound reassuring.

"Now, if your main confusion is about what plate armour actually is, the Master of Arms would be delighted to give you an afternoon's lesson in armour polishing. Along with the other squires and junior men at arms. Of course though, we will not be returning your clothes until after you finish. You wouldn't want to get armour polish all over them, would you?"

The full body blush is now a fetching shade of beetroot.

"Alternatively," and those ice blue eyes have a glint in them that at last might indicate a little humour, "tea is currently being served in the bedroom that adjoins this study. I assume that from your blushes you are far more confused about what a teapot is?"

Grateful nod.

"And given the choice you would far rather have a tutorial in how to recognise a teapot?"

Another grateful nod.

At this moment Cauthrien comes out of the bedroom door with an empty tray. A teapot, cream jug and two cups can be seen on a small table beside the four-poster bed. Cauthrien salutes Loghain, studiously ignores his naked interview subject, and marches out of the room.

Loghain gestures to Champ to precede him into the bedroom. "Trust me, young lady, this is a confusion that I can guarantee will never enter your mind again."

The bedroom door closes behind them.


	9. Chapter 9

_**Oh Zute. Just what were you thinking of when you wrote this?**_

_** s/6602524/4/The_Lost_Chapters**_

_**You just knew The Teyrn wouldn't let this go...**_

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><p>"Madam, I can say without fear of contradiction that this one hit a new low."<p>

Zute looks up at The Teyrn inquringly. Displaying surprisingly little embarrassment so far, given that she's in the usual condition for one of these interviews.

Actually, she's not as badly off as some of the previous visitors to the study. Cauthrien for some reason issued her with a small bath towel after searching her and taking her clothes away. The bath towel really doesn't hide a lot, but has been strategically draped just the same. As long as Zute doesn't move, it should be all right. Just. And come to think of it, breathing too deeply probably isn't a good idea either.

Loghain paces the floor. "Let's look at the premise of this one in a little more detail."

He flicks through the parchment sheaf that he's carrying. "A creature from another world - apparently not a desire demon though you would never know it from the way she carries on - is mystically transferred into the head of Elissa Cousland, and proceeds to seduce both me and my son in law. In a bathtub. Simultaneously"

He peers at Zute. Zute for some reason is avoiding his gaze.

"And this desire-demon-that-isn't is implied to come from the same existence that all you fan fiction writers keep popping up from. I seem to recall one of my previous interviewees telling me that _self-insertion,_" he uses the unfamiliar term with some care, "is supposed to be one of the great crimes in this form of writing? And yet you deliberately write about a woman transported into Ferelden and ending up in my bed...sorry, bath...for the direct purpose of goading Tyanilth into writing about you being transported into Ferelden and ending up in my...study?"

The blush has started. Loghain shakes his head. "Dear dear." He goes back to the manuscript.

"Now, madam, I suppose you get a few marks for not making me burn the bathtub or the tent at the end of it. And lose them again for breaking the foot off the bath."

Another ruffle through the pages.

"And for your information, madam, if you study the weapons rack over there, you will see that my sword is a perfectly standard size. Besides," and there's a glint in his eye, "as I tell new recruits to Maric's Shield, it is not the size of the blade, but the skill of the thrust."

_He didn't just say that, did he?_

Loghain sets the pages down on the desk and seats himself in the leather chair.

"Now, how are we to resolve this?"

Zute is now a fetching shade of pink in all areas that the bath towel is not obscuring.

"I suppose you want to apologise?"

Nod

He stands up again but surprisingly does not go to the bedroom door. Instead he opens a different door. Curls of steam rising off a large wooden bathtub can just be seen beyond the door.

"Catch"

A missile comes flying in Zute's direction. She catches it, and managed to lose the inadequate towel at the same time. It's a cake of soap, smelling of sandalwood.

"This time," Loghain informs her, "you can start by washing my back. We'll discuss what happens after that."

The bathroom door closes behind them.

* * *

><p><em>"Another bucket of hot water? That makes seven so far!" The cook in the castle kitchens sighs and dips another bucket out of the cauldron. "There you are. What in the name of the Maker is going on up there?"<em>

_Cauthrien tips out the bucket of lukewarm water she's carrying into a washtub and takes the new one with a sigh as loud as the cook's. "Trust me, Mistress, you don't want to know. I just keep leaving the buckets outside the door."_

_The cook looks at her. "Another of these writers being interviewed?"_

_"Yes."_

_A snort, and the cook turns back to her cauldron. "You'd think all these silly women would find something better to do with their time"_

_"Apparently not." Cauthrien lugs the bucket towards the door. "When I come back with the next one, can you find another cake of soap?"_

_"But I sent a new cake up when we poured the bath? What on earth is he doing with it?"_

_"Mistress, I think that neither of us wants the answer to that either."_


End file.
